Open Eyes
by Miss MMS
Summary: Sherlock's pov, as he takes out Moriarty's web after the fall. When by accident he runs into John, he will find that being reunited with his best friend will be more complicated than he had anticipated.
1. Chapter 1

There must be a football match tonight; I can hear collective cheering, separated by long minutes calm. Between the cheers, barking, and cars fill the air. I would shut the windows, but the inside of my hotel room is boiling. That, and the ceiling fan offers little alleviation; the heat is merciless. So I'll have to endure the noise. I can only hope that sleep with grip me soon, anointing my mind some precious silence.

_'GOL!_'

Really Madrid? Is it honestly necessary to put on such an exhibition, every time your team kicks a sphere of leather and latex into a net? Their enthusiasm could be put to infinitely much better use. For, oh, I don't know? What do normal people do with their time?

_'NOOO!'_

Evidently scream nonsense at the telly.

Is that what John is doing right now? Wasting away in front of a telly?

Wait; is it wrong to group him with normal people? I don't see why not; he's not like me, so that means he is probably one of them. Then again, what are the criteria for being 'like me'? Would that entail jumping off a building for a flat mate? Well, John never was _just _my flat mate. There was never a proper word for us, which made introductions difficult for me. Even Microft had trouble labeling us; he called John my _Pal _once_._ Pal? Really Microft? How very perceptive of you; one of the many qualities that made you such an ideal, older brother. Well, to be fair, I called John my friend during one of our first cases together. We were at Barkley's, and I was introducing him to Sebastian. When I introduced John as my friend, it made him shift uncomfortably and correct me. _'Colleague,' _he said. I suppose he thought that was a safer word. College implies that our relationship is strictly work related. Friend on the other hand, well, that means there is an emotional investment involved. Perhaps even a romantic one. Was John worried Sebastian would get the wrong idea? Why should he? They didn't even know each other.

That admittedly always offended me; when John corrected me, or other people. The phrase 'I'm not actually gay,' still rings unpleasantly in my mind. Why was he incapable of seeing that I found his defensiveness hurtful? Surly, my discomfort was written over my face, mapped out on my features. There was no need for a skilled cartographer to read the landscape of my expression. John's words hurt me, which would be obvious to anyone with eyes. Why did he never peal back his lids and look?

Yes, John is one of them. A normal person.

I sigh, it's not as if any of that matters. Not now. Sleep; I need to just fall asleep. Something, which is unattainable tonight, it seems. A week breeze blows warm air over my exposed limbs. I didn't bother with clothes tonight, too hot. Though, the down side of not wearing knickers is that all my skin is sticking together. Not something I enjoy.

My legs are a bit too long for the bed, so my feet hang beyond the edge of the mattress. It's a thrill for my toes, but I don't like having my extremities dangling off the edge of the bed. I know it's childish, but It makes me feel vulnerable, threatened even. So I pull my legs toward my chest and hug them, I sleep better in fetal position anyway. I usually hug a pillow, pretend its John, but its too hot for that tonight. My thumb rubs my knee absentmindedly, that part of my leg was always unreasonably smooth and soft, even more so now that it's moist with sweat.

The motion of my thumb tracing the outline of my patella is soothing. Mostly because the sensation reminds me of John. I often travel back to the memory of the night we solved the hound case. Try not to overuse that memory; for fear that I'll wear it down. That I might weaken its vivacity, like an over washed sweater or an overhead song. Still, I think I'll take it out tonight, perhaps it can lull me unconscious.

That night was endlessly cooler than this one. I was already lying down on my bed when John was coming back from the bathroom. He was wiping toothpaste from his face with a tiered smile.

'You ok?' he asked. I looked up at him and grunted, I was too tiered to spare the energy to formulate words. John knew that, so he offered an understanding smile as he sat next to me. My legs were still on top of the covers, I shifted them to accommodate his body, but that only made John shift closer. He exhaled before he started fingering circles on my knee, threw the thin fabric of my pajamas. It was an innocent, friendly touch. Still, I was mildly surprised; John was not the tactile type. We didn't frequently hug or exchange warm touches. It is not to say that we were cold, far from it, we just didn't express endearment that way. We had a choreographed dance, I, the genius, would impress John with my mental dexterity. He, in turn, would lavish my ego with sweet words. I would orchestrate convoluted plans; he would follow with his pistol. There was nothing he wouldn't do for me. With the notable exception: physical intimacy. So what was it about that night that made him comfortable enough to touch me? I still don't know.

We were quiet for a while, just looking at each other until John spoke again: 'what did you see in the moor? You looked terrified.'

'Oh, nothing,' I replied. I was dreading the question, so I was eager to brush it off. He on the other hand, seemed to already know the answer, so he pushed on.

'Sherlock, did you see Moriarty?' I groaned again and avoided eye contact. 'Your safe you know.' He added softly.

I glanced up at him, unconvinced. 'Its not me I'm worried about.' Several expressions passed threw John's face, until he settled on one.

'Oh.' The one syllable hung in the air, he gulped it away loudly. His body stiffened as he licked his bottom lip. Had I revealed too much? Didn't think the knowledge that I worried about him would be some sort of awkward revelation. Evidently it was since his countenance suggested that he was uncomfortable, yet also pleased. So he liked that I worried, but he did not know how to respond. Interesting. I decided to press on.

'Really John, be practical. What would I do without my blogger?' That made him chuckle, he liked it when I said sentimental things in a bored tone. Never understood his sense of humor.

'Oh I have no idea. I suspect you will have to go back to performing without an audience.'

'I'd go mad.'

We locked eyes until we broke into a chuckle that turned into a contagious laugh. His grip on my knee only tightened. Without thinking I grabbed his hand, it felt natural at the time. His features softened as he squeezed back.

'_NOOO_ '

Seems Madrid is loosing, pity. They have a good team. Does make my job easier though, tomorrow everyone in the city will be hangover and peeved. With any luck, Joaquin Lloas, the next man on my list, will be among the mourners. Meaning he will be off his guard.

Spaniards, truly lovely people, but sport fanaticism and afternoon siestas are their chief downfall. Moriarty really should not have trusted so many. Thank goodness he did.

I shift my legs again, really can't get used to the Iberian climate. Far too hot and dry, my skin is both sticky and itchy, most of it flaking off. My once immaculate scalp is now irritated and leaving a powdery layer of dandruff on my pillow. Clearly my scalp does not take well to all the cheep hair dyes I've been using for the past year. This month I'm sporting a coppery hue, the texture is wiry and burnt. You really haven't seen split ends until you've seen the straw I pass off as hair. I barley recognize myself anymore, which is the point. Still, it's off putting to not remember what I used to look like. Whenever I take out old memories I'm a blur, just a gas of emotion flouncing about and lecturing. John on the other hand, I fastidiously reconstruct. -and if I imagine very hard I can even smell him, the scent of his freshly washed skin, wrapped in warm cotton and wool.

He had an incredibly subtle smell, wore nothing artificial since his bath products were all unscented, as was his detergent. His smell was completely unique and natural; I relished any whiff I could get. I now regret wearing so much cologne; it overpowered or completely masked John's smell. Unless I sniffed him up close, not something that was very opportune or appropriate. Obviously.

Regret, It's all I have now. It's the one emotion I always come back to when I think of John.

Move my mind to other things. My body, muscles and nerves complain under my splotched skin. It feels as if I've been run over, oh right. I was. Should specify that it was my fault for running toward incoming traffic. In hindsight that was a hasty move, but necessary to gain vital information on Lloas. Besides nothing was broken, just a bit bruised and sore on the right side of my pelvis. Should be almost unnoticeable discomfort by tomorrow afternoon. By that time I'll have taken care of Lloas and be on a bullet train to Sevilla. Just another dull day.

Its quiet now, the game must be over. Families have likely turned off their telly's and are now in the process of getting into bed: brushing their teeth, putting on their pajamas, drinking manzanilla. The usual nightly ritual.

What are you doing now John? As I peel skin in the dark and Spaniards scream at a match?

I have two possible realities for John. The first, being that he has moved out of Baker Street, into an insipid apartment. That he works in a hospital during the day and comes home at night to a woman. In this reality he has forgotten about me completely, he hesitates to even mention tales of me, as if I were an imaginary friend. Real stories, but not believable enough to be worth telling.

The second possibility is that he is trapped in Baker Street. He sits in our empty apartment, broken, and holding on to past victories, to feelings for me. He still loves me and can't get over me.

I don't know which option is worse.

It should be obvious, I gave up my life for him to be safe, to be happy. I live every day knowing I may die so that he can live; so that he can move on, make a real life, with a woman. Besides, what makes me think he even loves me? He never said it, not in so many words. I've never said it myself. Should I have? A woman would, someone like Sarah, she would know what to say to make him feel appreciated, important. I only thanklessly ordered him around; I put him in the line of fire. Got myself burned.

Besides, say everything I wanted came to pass. That John and I would meet and he would love me, would our bodies even fit together? What sense could I make of his military, chiseled abdomens; the hard corners were his skin stretches over bone? He is so compact and small, would the weight of my body break him? Do we even have enough angles to slide into? Think we should never have met; our bodies were not made for each other. A stupid thought.

I simply pray he is not alone on a bed, feeling broken. Like me.


	2. Chapter 2

Cracked dirt, dried vegetation, looming rain clouds. Nothing but miles and miles of train tracks as far as I can see.

Oh look, lavender. There's a blooming field of green and purple up ahead.

How thrilling.

I yawn. Its an unconscious reflex to keep the mind awake. Like a blush, it gives away how week we are; whether we want those around us to know or not. Really our bodies are terribly pretentious for trying to call our bluff. Perhaps I would like to sleep, _so stop keeping me awake_.

How long have I been on the train already? Check watch, a little under half an hour. Really? Feels as if I've been here for twice as long, probably because the view out my window is the opposite of stimulating.

How many hours are left until I reach Sevilla? Thats right, just two. I have to be grateful for little mercies like the AVE; its fantastic how fast it makes traveling south half the country. Not much works in Spain except for public transportation really, well, that is when its not being blown up by Basque nationalists. So aside from the occasional bombings, the rails are incredibly fast, clean, and timely. Thats all I could ask for.

I get up from my seat and move toward the back of the train car. A blond woman has been staring at me for the past couple of minutes. From what I can deduce she doesn't seem like a threat. Still, staying is not worth the risk her recognizing me. My disguise is good but recognition is always a possibility.

From her shoes I can tell that she is heading to a funeral, the heal is too low for the night but too austere for the day. No one woman would be seen in that shoe except at funeral, so she will be attending one as soon as she gets off this train. She was talking to her mother earlier in the train ride, so that rules her mother out as the deceased relative. Her eyes tell me she is more frustrated than upset, so it probably isn't her father's funeral either. Perhaps an Aunt's? Whoever the funeral is for, I know the testament they left behind was a disappointment. She has a utilitarian briefcase next to her, meaning she was recently with her lawyer. That meeting did not go well, she left in a hurry, still has crumbs from the breakfast she sheared with her lawyer on her black dress. Judging from her chipped nails and uneven, yellowing teeth, she could use the money. She doesn't earn enough at the solon to live well. From her ascent and diction she was born and raised in the outskirts of Madrid, from her tattoos and palms I can tell she is a hair dresser. In short, she is not a threat.

Just a sad woman staring at a stranger.

Still, I would appreciate some privacy so I find a quieter part of the car and sit next to the window. The AVE must not get much use at this time of night, hardly anyone is here. It's suspiciously empty actually, Microft might have something to do with it. Can he do that? Regulate how many people take my train? Of course he can, I don't doubt it for a second. The moment I finnish that thought my phone vibrates inside my pocket, I fish it out and check the screen. Speak of the devil.

'_Hola Hermano querido_.'

'Evening sherlock.'

'What do you want, I terribly busy.' I yawn.

'You know you leave the worst crime scenes to clean up after.'

'Sorry, can't hear a thing. Must be my reception.' I'm already in a foul mood, really don't need Microft to toy around with me. If he wants to say something then he should be direct. I'm not one of his government pawns that he can fool around with.

'Do not dare hang up, not until you explain yourself.' There is a menacing edge to his voice that stops me from flipping my phone off. _Fine, I'll play this game Microft, just don't pretend your not helping me with it._

'Explain what? At lease describe this "crime scene" your referring to.'

'El Prado Museum, two bodies were found. One by the name of Jorge Torres, found in the bathroom stabbed to death, the other, Juaquin Lloas, found 30 feet from that bathroom holding the murder weapon used on Torres.'

I grin, this is fantastic news. 'Sounds strait forward to me. Any theories?'

'Yes. _You_.'

I role my eyes and start playing with my finger nails. This entire conversation is already premeditated and choreographed by Microft. I just have to nod or moan at the right ques. -and he wonder's why I blame him for what happened to mummy? He doesn't need my full attention, never does. 'Come now, you can do better than that. Is there any surveillance showing me go near either of the two victims during the entire day?'

'No. However, there is footage of you in your ridiculous disguise walking inside one of the main galleries.'

I smile, he thinks thats proof? It's a wonder we are even related. 'Circumstantial evidence Microft. I like art, hardly makes me a killer.'

'No.'

I sigh, my brother can be so difficult to deal with even at the best of times. 'So tell me, how did Lloas die?'

'The medic says his fingernails point to poison, arsenic in particular.'

'Now how did he ingest that?'

'He didn't ingest it. On examining Lloas' switch blade, the police found that when the switch was activated, a needle would pop out. Supposedly injecting the owner of the blade with poison.'

'What a very neat little murder you have then.'

'Yes. It would be neat except that the amount of time that lloas had in between killing Torres and crashing dead in the 16th century galleries, was not enough time for there to be a reaction to arsenic. Certainly not to the amount that could fit inside the blade.'

Alright, now we are getting somewhere, 'Is this something the _policia_ brought up?'

'Of course not, they bought the switchblade trick, they are out investigating Torres to see if anything will lead them to a suspect.'

_Perfect,_ 'How convenient it must be for them to be so credulous. No wonder crime rate is so low in that city.'

'Your sarcasm is always a joy Sherlock.'

'You know, being a man of habit is dangerous for someone like Lloas. He should know better than to order that same salad every time he has lunch at the Ritz.' I can hear Microft exhale in frustration before he replys incedulously.

'You poisoned his food? At the Ritz hotel?'

'Probably not, but if I did I'm sure it was much to easy too disguise myself as a chef and switch out the cloves for his salad with passion flower thorns.'

'What?'

Its beyond irritating that Microft is playing dumb, I will humer him though, if only to pass the time, 'Passion flowers, named for their beautiful color and because their pollen is shaped like the nails used for a Crucifixion. When boiled, the level of arsenic is rendered inert. However, when taken raw its potency is lethal.'

'Sherlock, if you went threw the trouble of poisoning his food then why did you bother with rigging his switch blade?'

'Obvious, the blade was made and recently fixed in a shop that doubles as a narcotics trafficking hotspot. Its also part of Moriarty's web. I switched his blade with an altered replica before Lloas picked it up yesterday. The Police will quickly locate the establishment by the signature engraved on the steal of the blade. I'm hoping the Spanish government will help take out some of these men for me. I won't hold my breath though.' _I really could use a nail filler, my hands are unseemly... _

'-and I assume you wanted Torres dead because he was affiliated with Moriarty, but why did Lloas kill him?

'Oh, lucky coincidence. Lloas recently opened a packed containing some unsavory photographs of Torres with his wife. Jealousy is a terrible thing.' Too lucky a coincidence, Microft was probably behind that.

'This is more convoluted that your usual tricks. Your loosing your touch. -Oh, one last thing Sherlock, why were you in the galleries then?'

'I already told you Microft. I was there appreciating oil paintings, Velasquez in particular.' I am in madrid very infrequently, I wasn't about to pass up the chance to see one of my favorite painters. Not that Microft would understand my unusual sensibilities. So he naturally responds with sarcasm, as he does when anything gets too sentimental.

'How very genteel of you.'

'Is that all?'

'Don't you want to ask how John is doing?'

Yes.

Of course I do, more than anything. I want to know that he is fine and happy. I want to ask were he lives, what he looks like, who he is with. I have a million questions and Microft has all the answers. He probably has hours of footage on John from his CCTV cameras. Probably has camera's planted in John's home, and access to his therapist's notes. He would know what John eats for breakfast to what show he watches before bed. I would just have to ask and I could know everything. Then why don't I?

I'm afraid.

Become petrified at the prospect of knowing. Anything I can imagine about John's life always has room for doubt. I can be wrong so long as I don't ask. Asking would be the death of all hope. It would mean that when I wonder what John is doing, that there would be a reality I would have to prescribe to. I could no longer warp past memories or invent possible futures. Once I ask how John is doing, well, that would dictate the outcome of our lives.

I don't know what I want Microft to tell me, anything he could say would leave me feeling rejected or guilty. I know that I have very likely lost John. That he has moved on and is forever out of my grasp. I'm just not ready to really know for sure. Not yet, not when my own safety is so precarious.

'No.'

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Ok, so this is my first Sherlock Fanfic. So critiques and feedback are very welcome.

I'm uploading this story on AO3 if any of you prefer that site better.

Enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

I am dead.

As dead, as dead can be. That's clear to me now.

In my hands I hold the evidence, it's undeniable. It's the truth. No one looking at this vital clue could reach any other conclusion. I am dead, and so much so that my death is advertised on the cover of Time magazine. My death's validity is so irrefutable that it merited being the cover story of the June issue. None of the readers doubt it, why should I?

'Sherlock's Suicide' reads in small white print agents a razor sharp image of me. When did they take that photo? I should be able to remember if a camera was pointed in my face, shouldn't I? I can't place where I am in it, which is ridiculous because I remember everything. However, all I can see is a dark pattern of wallpaper behind me. Can't place it anywhere. Think it reminds me of the wallpaper in Adler's home.

I also can barely recognize the man in the picture, doesn't look anything like me now. Hardly looks like I remember myself to be, back when I was Sherlock Homes. The name even sticks to the roof of my pallet uncomfortably. That's what happens when you don't hear your own name in a year; it becomes foreign to you, like an aged body. I'm not sure if I can even place all the syllables in the right order. How did John used to say it? Yes. Now I remember how it sounds. Long and angular. Like long digits rubbing a caller bone, or when honey meets steaming water. He said it so well, sure he still does. Hope he does, say my name I mean, or at least think it. It would comfort me if he did, though he probably doesn't.

Think back to the photograph. I'm glaring strait into the lens, the eyes are penetrating. My gaze is both nefarious and extra-terrestrial; my mouth is subtly curved into an iniquitous smirk. I'm using one hand to pull the caller of my jacket across my chest, it's a defensive pose. The entire image is very dark, making it appear as if my face and hand are floating, both features hold an equally truculent demeanor.

Is that what they thought of me, as dangerous? Probably.

So now, they're using photographs like this one to brand my bad-boy image? Pedestrian, predictable, dull. To be fair I was the one making that expression, they just took a shot at the right moment. Hit, click, snap. Type up a few phrases filled with superlatives to accompany the incriminating photographs, and exto-presto, they have a thrilling cover story on a fraud that fooled all Britannia. Now all the Americans, and whoever else that reads this imbecile magazine, will think that I was not only a fraud, but that I was dangerous. Grunt. Why does that bother me? That's what I want, right? That misconception is what keeps John safe. It's why I jumped off Bart's, to complete Movriaty's story.

Chew on my bottom lip. It's like a stab in the pride though, for media to drag my name threw the dirt, it's somewhat enraging actually. Makes me want to- no. Absolutely not. _Calm down. _You're in public. Remember, you found this magazine on the table next to you; you're just a normal person drinking tea while reading a magazine_. Play the part._

I exhale; turn the pages with unsteady fingers to find the cover story.

John.

Hold the air in my lungs, too startled to breathe. Everything stops for a moment; there is no noise, or people in the cafe. There is no New York, or London. No endless months of time in between me and him. At this moment there exists only John and me.

I'm looking at a picture of him smiling; in the picture I'm behind him with my hand on his shoulder. We both look like we are freezing, yet we're giggling just the same. Inhale; exhale. My heart is pounding agents my ribs as a rush or serotonin fills my head. Seeing him for the first time in months; that smile. Breathe. It's just a photograph.

I look up; feel strangely exposed looking at this in public. As if people could tell what John meant to me from the unevenness of my breath and the slight tremor in my hands. No one is looking at me; they're all drinking piping hot drinks, typing away at laptops, or reading the news. No one can look at me and know that seeing john's smile makes my chest brim with an unnamable pleasure. It's intoxicating.

When no one is looking I'll clip the photograph and hide it in my wallet. Save it for later. For now, I skim the rest of the story; there is a two page spread photograph of people at my funeral. Mycroft stands in the center, looking somewhere in between constipated and angry. Lastrade is next to John toward the right of the photograph, the former looking openly devastated and guilty. John looking more composed to anyone who doesn't know him, I however, can see the cracks in his carefully constructed veneer. I can tell how hurt he is. Reminds me of when he reached out for my wrist. He was trying to feel my pulse. Not for the reasons I would do that: to know if someone is scared, aroused, or lying. He wanted to know if I was alive, and Molly's team made sure that didn't happen. He called me his friend when he was pushing the crowd in front of me aside, trying in vain to get to me.

I saw his eyes, I saw him fall.

Close magazine, stuff it in my bag. Walk swiftly out of the cafe.

Have to hold back a quivering sob, it forms in the back of my throat when I think of that day. Causes a jolt of stiffness and pain to course threw my neck and shoulders. Can't let anyone see that, not because it would break my cover…just can't let them see _me. _Brush past a crowd of tourists as I walk into Central Park. Find a secluded spot and lay down, on top of a hill of bedrock. I take the magazine out of my bag before using the bag as a pillow. It's not very comfortable, but better than resting my head on the hard gray rocks. Close my eyes; I can reconstruct memories better that way, less distractions. If only I had a cigarette, then the memories could play out behind my eye lids as vividly as a film on a screen. I'll have to do without one though.

'_Get out of the way, that's my friend.'_

'Let me threw please.'

I was lying completely still on the cold pavement, at least I was trying to. John had a slight concussion from when he hit the pavement himself; on top of that, his brain was sorting through an influx of adrenaline and sheer terror. He could not have been able to notice if I was still alive in that state. Even if he did, Molly would have told him that I died on the way to the operating room. He would have been too frazzled to refute her. It never came to that though.

John pushed past a couple pedestrians as he rushed to kneel down next to me. That look on his face, when he reached for my wrist; when he did not feel a pulse. His warm fingers, digging into my wrist. I've held on to the feeling for so long. It's the last thing he left me. Those fingers were so desperate and frantic. Tears brim on my eyelashes from that memory. His mouth curved into a painful frown when he touched me. His face wasn't made to curve that way, it was disconcerting to see such a foreign expression pass through it. His features were designed to smile, laugh, or smirk. They were not conceived to curve downward like that; it was like a limb broken in the wrong direction. Makes me sick to think of it.

Then some woman instantaneously dragged John from me. He later collapsed on a couple more pedestrians as a nurse rolled me over, exposing my head wound. There was a lot of blood; I could feel that most of my hair was dripping wet from it. My mass of curls where heavy from the liquid; it was pooling in about a two foot circumference from my temple. I could see John staring at the blood, I could almost pinpoint the exact moment in which he understood that I was dead. Once he knew, he just collapsed; there was nothing to keep him standing anymore. Didn't realize I had been his support, his cane; that he had been leaning on me. Guess he had been, and that in that moment, I had kicked the bucket from underneath his feet.

That must have been the hardest moment in the entire ordeal, much scarier than jumping. That was the easy part, but seeing John react that way, falling; it filled the pit of my stomach with dread. As if I had signed my own death warrant, or the way prisoners feel as they approach their executioner. Except that I was willingly putting my neck around the noose. I pointed a gun to my neck and took a shot. I felt so much regret at that moment, wanted to turn back, tell him I was fine. There was no turning back though. It had to be that way, to save him. To save me.

I died that day; at least I feel dead. I don't even mean that the Sherlock I was died that day. No, I feel that the person I am now is not alive. _This, _whatever you call what I'm doing, it's not living. It's an interminable string of days, filled with fighting, sorrow, and regret. I am relentlessly exhausted; my bones feel like they could snap at a gust of wind. My muscles are only ever knotted and stiff, my hands have a slight but constant tremor. When I wake up, before I've even opened my eyes, guilt already begins to mix into my bile. The constant, nagging, reminder that I left John alone, it's always there. Miss him inordinately; thousands of cells and neurons in my brain seem to be dedicated solely to reminding me how much I miss him. The feeling was at first a loud siren; it is now a low hum. I've become accustomed to the wanting, the missing; it's my normal now.

I think spitefully at how misfortunate I felt before I died. I thought back then that my unrequited love was an insufferable condition. That sort of wanting though, it had nothing to do with this kind. Before I did anything just to hold his hand, embrace him, sleep with him. I wanted eventually to at least kiss him, feel his lips agents mine at least once. Wanted him to have my first kiss, keep it and do whatever he wanted with it. Now, I'm filled with the reality that I won't get to even see him again, that I will probably spend the rest of my life without him, his friendship, and his love. I've ruined any chance of that now. The weight of that reality feels like I'm being buried alive. I feel claustrophobic inside my own head; one is a crowd with me. Yet the only thing that fuels me is the wanting. Pathetic, I know. Sometimes, I wonder if what I want is even real, if we were ever even friends. Was I important to him, or was it all in my head? Could we have had any of the things I that I so craved from him?

Ultimately, could we have been lovers, if I had not died?

Yes, I think we could have been. I think he might have fallen in love with me during the Adler case. I think that's why he was so supportive of my interest in Irene. He loved me enough that he wanted me to be happy with her; he just didn't realize that it wasn't that way for me. Not with Irene, he didn't know that though. I had no idea how to correct him either, he probably still thinks I liked her. That's why he lied to me about her dying; he thought it would crush me. He was capable of doing anything to keep me safe. Oh John.

So perhaps, if I had stayed alive he might have wanted to take things further with me. I think he wanted to anyway, that's why we were sleeping together so often, giggling at crime scenes, holding hands on the run.

So it stands to reason that we might have worked out, and _that kills me._

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**Ok, expect the next chapter soon! Please review. **_  
_


	4. Chapter 4

I've developed a sort of key dance in last couple weeks. Have to simultaneously wiggle the key in place as I push and lift the door. Have to push with my hips tonight to get enough pressure. It's an easy dance to get right in the morning, but late at night, after I'm spent, it's a little trickier. Which way did I have to turn the knob and key? Yes, that's right. Click. The door comes open with a loud squeal, I leave it ajar as I go back to carry my bicycle up the stoop. I'm panting. It's not an especially heavy bicycle; I just never managed to regain the muscle mass I lost in the spring. Consequently I'm thinner and weaker; get out of breath from a simple ten-minute ride. To think I used to run around half of London without feeling strained. Now getting up the four steps, to the tip I call an 'apartment' is a feet I can barely surpass.

I walk my bicycle threw the entry way as I slam the door shut behind me with a foot. Clearly being stealthy or quiet are not concerns of mine. I couldn't give half a tit about wakening up any of my five _roommates_. I turn on the lights to the living room. Well, this is it. This is where I live now, my south Philly flat.

It's embarrassing, I know. It's a flat that's appropriate for struggling art students, not for a thirty-six year old consulting detective. Well, a thirty-six year old that _used_ to be a consulting detective; not one anymore.

What am I now?

A hit man? Fugitive? A pawn in Microft's secret service? All of the above. So yes, I'm definitely not a detective anymore. Grunt, so I guess this apartment fits me perfectly then. It's falling apart, cold, lifeless, and angular. _Perfect fit really_.

I move through the kitchen cabinets. Really is impossible to keep my food safe from my flat mates. Why must they always take the tuna? –and the bread? Growl, they are completely merciless.

I whirl back to check the fridge, it's empty. The door is full of condiments and crackers, but nothing is edible, just spare parts. Nothing I can join together and consume; all missing pieces for something else. I'm really not equipped to live by myself am I? I brought the books, case files, skulls. The test tubes, dissected fingers, music, but never anything that made 221B a home. I didn't know how to fill it with food, the aroma of Lapsan su chang, or even laughter. John took care of those things for me; took care of me.

He erroneously thought that the flat was full of me; he used to say that it brimmed with my madness. Thought there was no room for him. Oh John, how very wrong he was. Why did I never walk him threw the difference he made; show him how I noticed every imprint he left on the flat, how I loved it, how he made it a home. I can only blame myself if he doesn't know that.

Despite being completely broke, John had very old fashion taste that was intrinsically expensive. His watch alone was worth more than a thousand pounds; his classic Loake shoes were two hundred. So he liked having few very, very, good quality items. He was frugal when it came to quantity but not to quality; well, again, at least before he became unemployed. He collected old medical books and prints; he scattered a few of them around the apartment, but mostly kept them in his room. They were delicate and precious, he didn't want me to boil them or drop acid on them. An understandable precaution, given my history. He never noticed that I was careful with his things, except for his laptop, but he had no regard for electronics anyway. Why should I care if he didn't? Makes me smile to think of how slow his typing was; how did he ever write anything at that pace? He just used his pointer fingers; one by one. How did those same fingers pull triggers and sew sutures?

No clue.

I mostly miss breakfast; that was his time. Every day I would give up whatever I was doing and let him set the table with food. We would read the paper respectively, and then he would trick me into eating food. He quickly figured out that if he started feeding me as I was in a heated discussion, that I would fail to notice until I had finished the plate. I pretended to be irritated by it, in reality I enjoyed it, welcomed it. I enjoyed the closeness of him getting me to eat, enjoyed the way he would smile with triumph. It made me feel as if he wanted to take care of me. In short, he made me feel loved.

No one had ever made me feel that way before: safe, cared for.

I had been so very alone before I met him.

Bite my bottom lip; he would always wear slim fitted shirts to breakfast. They showed off all the right angles on his body; _as if there was any wrong part on him_. They were usually striped horizontally, gray or blue. He didn't bother to tuck them into his pajama bottoms, so his midriff was visible from behind. Did he do that on purpose? To arouse me? Perhaps.

He would wait until after breakfast to shave, so he always came to the table with gray hairs on his chin. I always wanted to feel them, I'm sure they were ruff. He looked so handsome, fresh, and happy. We sat so close during breakfast; I would give anything to go back, to lean in just a fraction and press a kiss on his lips. To just let my left hand fall on his right hand. It was always only a matter of centimeters between us; why did I ever let something as insignificant as personal space get in the way? Now the entire Atlantic separates us, along with my death and Moran's gun. Everything seems so impossible now.

I feel so lonely here. John. I miss you.

Shit.

I'm making a mess; I've been casually throwing cans and bottles out of the cupboards. Well my _roommates_ deserve it; teach them not to touch my food.

Roommates. An interesting word. John used to be my flat mate right? Flat mate seems like such an inadequate description though, but that is what he was. I needed someone to live with; he needed someone to help with the rent. We were never officially colleagues, or anything else, but we were definitely flat mates. That much was official. So the most special person in my life was my flat mate? Interesting. Well, despite this place being full of flat mates, it lacks everything 221B had.

I loved that flat; I never wanted to leave it. Why would I? It had all my things: experiments, clothes, books. It had Mrs. Hudson, it had John. I never would have left it willingly.

He filled the entire space too. John's gray hair would cover the whole flat until Mrs. Hudson would bother to vacuum or dust. That never bothered me, so long as his hair didn't get on my suits. He was never close enough to me for that to happen though.

Even the imprints his shoes left on the carpet or his body left on the sofa were a comfort. They were a constant, moving orchestra of clues, all indicating moments of John's day. Every clue was such a pleasure, a reassuring reminder that John was always there. Always with me.

One clue that still puzzles me is that of John's old books. Whenever I opened up his surgery books they smelt of artificial pine. Meaning that when the books had been in active use, in his previous flat, he had a pine scented plug. Question is, who wanted the apartment to smell that way? John never would, he hates artificial smells. That's why all his personal products are unscented. So it must have been his housekeeper, or girlfriend. Did you ever have a live-in girlfriend John? I wondered if he was going to propose to her, marry her. What might have happened that made him end up alone, looking for a flat mate, for me? I never asked. It didn't seem appropriate; we both had an unspoken truce to not ask about each other's past lives. We would just wordlessly fix each other. I fixed his leg, he fixed my addiction. Well, one addiction.

I suppose that despite all the closeness we had, discousing our pasts would lead to a new level. A new type of relationship, a type that John prabably thought I wasn't ready for.

How very wrong he was. Now I'm dead and he knows nothing about me.

Are you happy John? Was your pedestrian caution worth it?

'YO.'

'Yo, what are you doing?' My roommate, Alex asks. She came down the staircase and presumably was scandalized by the state of the kitchen. I pretended not to notice her until now. I turn around to face her, she looks very irritated.

'Oh, just organizing the kitchen. You haven't seen my bread or tuna by any chance?' My American accent falters toward the end. Alex doesn't notice.

'Had some friends over, we ate it all.'

'Ah, are you planning on returning that Alex?'

'No, the food is communal,' she snorts.

'Yes I know, except 'communal' indicates that everyone buys food instead of just one person,' I state as slowly as I can to ensure retention. She creases her eyebrows in response.

'Hey, at least I fucking clean. You don't even know how to wash a dish!'

'-And you don't know how to paint yet you're a painting major, so let's not state irrelevant facts.' Oh no, I seem to be making her much angrier, and now a few more roommates have come into the kitchen.

'You dick!'

'I just want a sandwich.' I say innocently.

'Hey, relax Alax. Ben, just go to your room and let me take care of the mess,' says the girl standing next to Alex. She's talking to me, they call me Ben here. I sigh and move toward the stairs.

'Fine,' I guess I won't eat tonight.

* * *

Ok, for any of you who find the plot a bit slow, I promise it will pick up soon. Just don't expect John to come into the picture for many, many, more chapters!

Please review, I really what to know how you are all perceiving this story and the writing style! Thankyou to crownedclown for reviewing!


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